About love

This is a misrable translated version of one of my poems that was recently published in a book in macedonia. The original is in macedonian, so it does sound kinda dumb. Also I changed a thing or two.

I went to bed that night
thinking I would dream of you again.
With a smile on my face I closed my eyes
and waited for the Dream Weaver to visit my mind.

After some time I felt a presence inside my head.
Something alien, something dark.
From the depths of my dark corners
something shrieked and lunged towards me.
Just before it desecrated my soul I saw YOUR face.
I tried to scream, but it was too late.
I knew I had to listen to the Soothsayer when she said
that this love is not natural.
Silent tears of rage rolled down my cheeks as I lay
in the bed, in a grotesuqe figure.

I managed to open my eyes and I saw your figure
dressed in black with a devilish grin streched ear-to-ear.
I opened my mouth to curse you but blood ran down my neck and clothes.
I looked down. A dagger of green crystal was stabbed in my heart.
And you just stood there, laughing silently widening your eyes
watching in wonder as I drowned in my own blood.

"Why?" I thought to myself. Images of happines and gardens
danced inside my head, splashed with a haze of crimson red.
Then I realised I loved not a woman, but a demon. You leaned forward
and wispered "I shall meet you again."

I lay there helpless drenching in my own blood, paralised and broken
like a fly caught on the web of a spider. I looked at her.
"Go on finish me off." I managed to murmur through the red basin.

"No." she shook her head. There is a price to be paid for love.
Esspecially when you love a woman. She turned around
and her dark figure glided accross the room and out through the window.

You had a great concept, but it didn't seem to flow very well. There were a few lines that caught my attention such as:

"Why?" I thought to myself. Images of happines and gardens
danced inside my head, splashed with a haze of crimson red.

However, some of it made it the same cliche tale that's been told a thousand times for instance:

Just before it desecrated my soul I saw YOUR face.
I tried to scream, but it was too late.

The poem in general was a little wordy, and redundant in some places. However, you weak points don't exceed the stronger parts, so I think that if you try to minimize it a little, it will an exceptional piece of work.

Thanks Chevy I'll see what I can do. Im a total noob at poems, infact this is my 5th I think ever written.

I think this is more of a narrative poem. The format was a little weird and some of the lines were choppy. It was okay, besides that.

I agree with Chevy. Good conceptually, and you have some really great lines and manage to create a pretty tense feel, even with some minor errors.

With a smile on my face I closed my eyes
and waited for the Dream Weaver to visit my mind.

That's sweet... kind of a "we'll meet in dreams" sort of thing, but said much better.

After some time I felt a presence inside my head.
Something alien, something dark.
From the depths of my dark corners
something shrieked and lunged towards me.

I liked this...it was creepy, and the 'shrieking and lunging' is very vivid. Gave me shivers.

The end, however, was slightly cliche in all the dialogue:

"Go on, finish me off," just doesn't fit with the serious, eloquent tone you've set. Either cut the speaking or replace it with something more poignant.

"No." she shook her head. There is a price to be paid for love.
Esspecially when you love a woman. She turned around
and her dark figure glided accross the room and out through the window.

Kind of weak. I like the "There is a price....when you love a woman." but the ending sentence should have more of a BAM effect (kind of like that brick we discussed earlier ).

Overall, I liked this. Good job, Arvy.

this was coool, yet creepy, i liked it..

Arvandor wrote:Thanks Chevy I'll see what I can do. Im a total noob at poems, infact this is my 5th I think ever written.

For a fifth poem, this was great. My fifth poem was a lot worse...I think it was called a Girl Dies in Boston? Go back to like the first page of Dramatic poetry and you'll see that it is nothing to be proud of...